


How to Ruin Parent-Teacher Night, or, Playing Yourself: A Handy How-To Guide

by Zarla



Series: Vargas Stories [17]
Category: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac
Genre: Angst, Fake Marriage, Humor, M/M, Mutual Pining, Supernatural Elements, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, more like Fake Marriage chicken really, new and exciting ways to snipe at your other half and make them upset
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24948541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zarla/pseuds/Zarla
Summary: Sure, Edgar isn't legally Todd's guardian, butsomeoneshould probably go to parent-teacher night, and it might as well be him. And sure, Scriabin wants to come along which is probably not a good idea, but really, how much trouble can one embodied supernatural figment get into in just one night anyway?"And this is...""Scriabin Vargas," he said, with a wide smile. "I'm his husband."
Relationships: Edgar/Scriabin
Series: Vargas Stories [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/20964
Comments: 27
Kudos: 83





	How to Ruin Parent-Teacher Night, or, Playing Yourself: A Handy How-To Guide

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Chapter 29 of [Vargas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/49492). I know that when Vargas is set gay marriage would be illegal but don't negate the premise, just... just roll with it, okay.

"Hey, Mr. Edgar?"

"Yes, Todd?" Edgar didn't look up from the carrots he was cutting.

"Uh, they gave me a paper at school. I think you have to sign it? I'd ask my Mommy and Daddy to sign it, but the aliens haven't given them back yet."

Edgar winced to no one, that same awful pang of guilt in his chest. Scriabin made a scoffing noise from the table, but thankfully didn't actually say anything.

"Alright, let's see it."

Edgar turned around, took the sheet of paper from him, and leaned back against the counter to look it over. After a few seconds, he began reading it outloud. Scriabin couldn't read along in his mind anymore, he kept forgetting that.

"'We regretfully inform you that we're hosting a parent-teacher night on Thursday... if you're not this child's parent or parents, why are you reading this? Unless you're a legal guardian or whatever.'"

"Odd for you to not take something seriously," Scriabin said, leaning on one hand, and his eyebrows were raised.

"I'm not, this is what it says," Edgar said, the corner of his mouth twisting, and Scriabin tilted his head with a confused look. "'There will be food and refreshments, and they might be free but we're not making any promises. We're not going to apologize for anything, so don't bring any expectations, or weapons. If you're not coming, sign this so we can know for sure you don't care about your child's future.'"

"What, did _I_ write this? What the hell." Scriabin raised one eyebrow higher.

"...I'm not _entirely_ surprised. You remember what school was like, don't you?" And both of them shuddered. "It doesn't seem to have changed very much."

"Did you go to school, Mr. Scriabin? Were you in Mr. Edgar's head when you were kids?" Todd clambered onto the chair next to Scriabin, who steadied him when he lost his balance.

It was always a little strange to talk about their circumstances with Todd. He was one of the few people who actually knew, and he seemed unbothered by it, but it was just so _weird_ to talk about.

"Mm, no, I..." Edgar paused. _Infected_ was definitely the wrong word. "I didn't... get Scriabin until I met your neighbor."

"When he abducted you and knifed you in the face, you mean."

"Yes, that." Edgar looked away. "When we were... together, Scriabin..." God, it was hard to find the right words for this. For any of this. "Scriabin could read all my memories. So he knows what happened when I was younger."

"I might as well have been there," Scriabin said, with a casual shrug, although the import of it hung heavy in Edgar's mind.

In some ways, Scriabin _was_ there... when they put him there, anyway.

"So, was school awful for you too?" Todd said, without smiling. The only kid that was halfway nice to Todd was Pepito, and there was something definitely off about him. Even Todd seemed disconcerted by him, but at least Pepito didn't shove him into puddles or destroy his belongings or mock him constantly.

Edgar had gone through his school life completely alone and invisible, which was difficult in its own way, but he thought it was probably preferable to what Todd was going through.

Well, completely alone until he worked Scriabin into it. Scriabin had gone through school causing mayhem and trouble and always gliding out of it at the last minute, always with the right snappy comeback, always in control of the situation in some way - none of which was really a surprise to either of them.

"It wasn't pleasant," Edgar said, breaking himself out of his thoughts. "I'm just glad it's over."

"Let me see that." Scriabin held out his hand, and Edgar handed over the paper. After a few seconds, Scriabin vaguely shrugged at it, a silent concession. _I told you that was what it said_ , Edgar thought, with a familiar ache at the lack of response.

"You've got to sign it. Well, one of you should sign it." Todd looked thoughtful. "Um, should Mr. Edgar sign it first? Since he's older."

Scriabin twitched a little at that, an instinctual bristling at Edgar being above him in any way or fashion. God, he could be so ridiculous sometimes.

"Why don't we just go?" Scriabin said, and Edgar blinked.

"What?"

"Why don't we go?" Scriabin tossed the paper back on the table, smiling, and Todd tilted his head curiously. "It's got to be more interesting than hanging around here all day. We could meet all those kids that keep making Todd miserable. Or their parents at least."

"It said no weapons." Edgar pointed at him, and Scriabin sat back with an exaggerated huff.

" _Can_ you guys go?" Todd patted the table with his hands. "I don't know if you count."

Edgar looked down at the floor, his arms crossed. "Well, we're not... _legally_ your guardians, we're just watching you until your parents come back..."

"Edgar." Scriabin leaned on one hand again, giving him an unamused look. "Come on."

Even if somewhere he knew, some part of him didn't want to admit it. Then it'd be real, and he didn't know it'd do to Todd. It wasn't because Edgar had any issues with it himself, he was sure, even if he'd never planned on anything like this at any point.

Then again, he'd never planned on having a figment of his imagination come out of his head and cohabitate with him, so. Life was full of surprises.

Todd was still patting the table, his eyes wide, and he looked worried.

"Since I know you love practical problems, it _might_ be a good idea to let them know the situation here." Scriabin smiled at him in a way that gave him a bad feeling. "You know... how he lives here with us now, and all that. What if something happens to Todd during the day and they have to call us, and they end up calling the wrong house? It's a _very_ logical concern."

"You're planning something."

"Who, me?" Scriabin pressed a hand to his chest, grinning widely now. "What could _I_ be planning? Such baseless accusations."

"I remind you, they said _no_ weapons."

"Pfft."

"If you're just going to cause trouble, I'm not going to bring you," Edgar said, trying to be stern but he knew as well as Scriabin did that he was going to bring him. They rarely did anything apart, even when they wanted to, or even when they should.

"Oh, are you going to go?" Todd looked at him, blinking.

Edgar hadn't been planning on it, but at some point he'd agreed to do it without even knowing it. He shook his head and rubbed at his eyes. Scriabin. How he could get him to do things like this was beyond him.

"Alright... alright, but just for a little while. I don't really feel qualified to be there."

Scriabin moved his head in that way that accompanied an eyeroll. "You _are_ qualified, regardless of whether or not you _feel_ like you are."

Why did Scriabin always press this point? He couldn't be more comfortable with parenthood than Edgar was... that didn't make sense to him. Scriabin was the opposite of responsible.

"You _better_ not cause any trouble." Edgar pointed at him, and Scriabin just kept grinning at him.

He had a bad feeling about this.

\---

Scriabin had a good feeling about this.

Edgar was such a stupid, stupid man. Even without being able to hear his thoughts - not that Scriabin ever _needed_ to hear his thoughts since he was such a mundane and boring person - he knew what Edgar was thinking. As always, Edgar was dwelling on human interaction; what to say, what questions to ask, how to socialize just enough to get out of the entire affair. Edgar was trying to figure out his exit strategy, he could see it on his face as he drove.

And Scriabin could see, in the tightening of his eyes and the occasional glances in his direction, that Edgar was trying to figure out what Scriabin was going to do, just as he'd expected. All he had to do was toss him a few crumbs, hint at his intent, and Edgar went mad trying to figure out how best to stop him. Hilarious and so, so predictable.

There was no way, of course, that Edgar would ever be able to guess what he had planned. He was impenetrable to him, as he was to everyone who thought they could figure him out. Other people were weak and pathetic enough to be easily read, to be _predicted_ like some two-bit amateur, but Scriabin was not among their ranks. No, Scriabin was better than that, he was far better than any of the hopeless morons that constantly surrounded him, their mouths open and eyes glazed, waiting for someone to tell them what they thought.

Scriabin smiled as he watched the muscles in Edgar's jaw work in silent fretting. _I don't know what you're going to do_ , he could imagine Edgar saying, _but you better not do it._

 _I've never listened to you,_ Scriabin said to him, still satisfied. _You'd think at some point you'd learn._

He knew how Edgar would react to that, the little twitch, the little pinprick of anger and indignance he could bring up in him so well, the tiny pulls of muscles within...

And then he didn't do that, Scriabin didn't see it, and he reached out to feel it and it wasn't there.

Damn it. He kept doing that. He cursed at himself and crossed his arms. That was an Edgar thing to do, and he didn't do Edgar things. He did _not_ do Edgar things. He didn't need to feel Edgar's feelings to know them, he didn't need to feel his body move and react to him to know exactly how Edgar would do it. He didn't need that, and he didn't need him at all. He absolutely did _not_ need him in any way or form.

He recognized this kind of mental repetition, and Scriabin cursed at himself again under his breath. Another stupid piece of baggage that Edgar had thrown on him without asking, what else did Edgar even do? Of course Edgar would unload as much garbage as he could on Scriabin when they'd split, trying to lighten the vast load he carried all the time. Trying to talk himself out of feelings wasn't _his_ damage, it was _Edgar's_. That was a solid fact, and it was sad that Edgar was so desperate to bring him down to his level that he'd try to force his pitiful coping mechanisms on Scriabin, even though Scriabin didn't need them and didn't use them. 

Scriabin would _always_ be better than him. It didn't matter what else had changed, that would _never_ change, no matter how complicated (it wasn't complicated, he reminded himself) or conflicted (not conflicted) his feelings might have been. Feelings weren't hard. Edgar made them hard because he was a trainwreck of a person, but they weren't hard for Scriabin. Nothing was hard for him. He was perfect.

Scriabin's mood was darkening and he shook his head as a reminder. He wasn't going to let Edgar drag him down into some emotional tailspin. He had his _own_ plans tonight, and they were going to be great. If Edgar wanted, _invited_ him to take advantage of his trust and gullibility, how could he refuse? 

They arrived and got out of the car, and Scriabin checked himself in the side mirror to make sure his wig was well in place, the red yarn positioned just so. It still twisted in an ugly way inside him when he even thought the word. _Wig_. He should have his _real_ hair, it was Edgar's stupid fault that he'd lost it, just like everything was Edgar's fault, but it wasn't like he could do anything about it now. This was the best they could do, and it looked right. It didn't _feel_ exactly right, but it _looked_ right, and that was what mattered.

Edgar watched as Scriabin brushed a few strands behind one ear, and he was giving him that jealous look he often did. A bit distant, his smile a bit wistful as he realized yet again how Scriabin bested him at every aspect of existence. Edgar was _so_ insecure.

Although, there was always something warm in his chest when Edgar smiled at him. Satisfaction that Edgar was finally appreciating him as he should, no doubt.

"Don't cause any trouble." The moment passed quickly, as it always did, and now Edgar crossed his arms with that annoying 'I'm older than you' look. "If you make a mess of things, that might come back to Todd, and he does _not_ need us making anything harder for him."

"I know that." Scriabin straightened up, adjusting his coat. "I'm not going to make anything harder for _him_."

Edgar gave him a dubious look, at least, so he wasn't a total lost cause. Scriabin had always been driven to educate the mindless, to try and encourage some kind of critical thinking in even the most hopelessly small-brained. It really spoke of his magnanimous spirit how he kept reaching out to the sea of fools around him to try and help them, in spite of how it was never worth his time. Edgar had been his first student, of course, and he was still the primary focus of his efforts. He couldn't help but keep trying with him.

Within limits, of course. He didn't want Edgar smartening up enough to stop him from doing as he pleased, or from toying with him if he wanted, after all. That would be boring. And, under these circumstances, he was not about to give Edgar _another_ thing he could lord over him. It still pissed him off that he'd come back shorter than him. It was like They did it on purpose.

Well... after the enormous mess he'd caused Them, he wouldn't be entirely surprised if that was the case.

"You definitely have plans." Edgar headed for the school, glancing back at him every now and then to make sure Scriabin was following. What did he think he was going to do, run off? It wasn't like Scriabin had done that before. Well, maybe he had, but that wasn't relevant to the current situation. He didn't intend to do it _now_. Edgar should've been able to tell.

_Always on call to pat your head and talk away whatever ridiculous boogieman you've imagined my face on this time. How could I even run when I'm carrying all your issues? I couldn't get more than two steps._

_..._

It broke through his smile for a second, hurt deep through his chest. Right. Can't do that anymore. Stupid.

"I might have plans," Scriabin said, with casual ease because whatever he felt never came through his voice unless he wanted it to. Unlike Edgar, who he could always read so perfectly.

Edgar gave him a look.

It wasn't until they were walking through it that it really occurred to Scriabin - Edgar and Todd _did_ live in the same area, and it wasn't unreasonable that they would have gone to the same school. It was a very peculiar sense of deja vu as he followed Edgar through the halls. He'd seen this through Edgar's eyes and then eventually through his own, or how he'd approximated it to look. It was different now that he was really here. His eyes weren't Edgar's anymore, or the shadow of Edgar's as they had been when he was home. Everything-

He caught himself with an angry jolt, his teeth clenched. Not that word. That was the wrong word. He knew it was the wrong word.

Scriabin yanked on the strings, pulled himself back to the appropriate train of thought, all very easy, very uncomplicated. Nothing he had to think about any further. Everything here looked subtly different now from how Edgar remembered it, but the spirit of the place had stayed the same. Stifling, depressing, oppressive, prisonlike.

Scriabin recalled it, he could still remember Edgar's memories clearly. The intense, unrelenting pressure to be quiet and obedient, listen without questions, smother any spark of creativity. Anyone who deviated or rebelled was punished, which was why Edgar had buried that urge deep within until Scriabin found it and took it for his own. What a waste of a tendency, he thought. Edgar never appreciated what he had.

That same heavy atmosphere remained here, and Scriabin frowned at the thought of Todd having to bear its weight just as they had. Todd was better than this place, he deserved better than this place. Scriabin made a mental note to encourage Todd to work on that story where the school both burned down and sunk into the ocean (sharks would be a good addition). Couldn't let Todd go down the same path as Edgar had, turning into a quiet miserable sheep, dead to his own imagination. Todd didn't have a Scriabin inside to push him if he wanted to give up.

Todd _did_ have Shmee, but Shmee was different. Shmee absorbed nightmares and trauma, he didn't fight Todd's battles for him. And as much as Scriabin didn't like his smug condescending attitude (just because Shmee was older than him, just because he'd seen Scriabin when he was small and trying to figure out how things worked and gave him a push, just because it was Shmee's idea to give Edgar his toy for his focus, Shmee was always going on and on about how Scriabin had to do this and that and stop doing this and just spill all his secrets out to Edgar like Scriabin was ever going to do _that_ , and who did Shmee think he was, bossing him around? Like he was his dad or something even though things like them didn't even have parents, which was such bullshit. He could almost understand why Johnny had stabbed him)... 

Scriabin was still glad Shmee was there. Without Shmee's protection, Todd might not even be alive, much less sane.

Humans always cried about their minds being violated, their boundaries being crossed, weeping and wailing about their little meaningless lives being intruded on. They didn't appreciate what things like Scriabin and Shmee did. They'd never accept that some of them wanted to _help_ them, in their own ways. Edgar never accepted it, even if he said he did at times. Scriabin knew he didn't. He couldn't. That was a lie. Scriabin could tell.

On that note, Scriabin took a second to step back, so to speak, and listen. Nothing unusual here - just general school noise and the underlying buzz of human life, too trivial to actually listen to.

Nothing like him, as far as he could tell, though checking had just been an idle curiousity. He wasn't in the mood to actually confront or converse with something Outside, it was such a pain in the ass. Edgar probably wouldn't like him doing that either, it required a certain level of focus and attention and zoning out as needed seemed to freak Edgar out for some reason. Such a weak man.

He donked into a locker.

"Scriabin," Edgar said, in that faintly exasperated 'older than you' tone he didn't like, as he set a hand on Scriabin's shoulder to steady him. "Are you doing that thing again? Don't do that here. We have to pretend to be _kind_ of normal."

Scriabin brushed Edgar's hand off and ignored the warmth coming to his face. Damn stupid body, he hated it when he blushed. He just knew Edgar was reading too much into it, desperate for Scriabin to show weakness in some way. Edgar was always waiting for something he could hold over him, use against him. Scriabin rubbed his face where he'd bumped it. Stupid damn body and its stupid reactions to pain. He hadn't even hit it that hard.

"We're _not_ normal. And why? You don't even know what normal is."

"And you do? Come on."

Hated it when Edgar did that, and hated it even more when he couldn't think of a comeback to it quickly enough.

The auditorium had a good amount of people in it, chatting idly with each other, all of them fairly unremarkable and boring as humans went. There was a table that had some cookies set on it, with a small sign beside them that said "1$ for cookie. Pay or DIE." and a selection of red cups in front of a man who was glowering at anyone who looked at them.

"Who should we be talking to... is there somewhere we need to sign in...?" Edgar said to himself, boring as usual. Scriabin headed over to the table, looked the scowling man directly in the eye, and took one of the cups without breaking eye contact. The man's eyes widened, he looked as though he was about to say something, and Scriabin kept smiling. 

_Come on. You know you want to. But I bet you're a coward._

Scriabin turned, picked up a cookie in one smooth movement, and headed back to Edgar's side. If someone wanted to stop him, they were welcome to try, but they weren't going to get anywhere. Stupid little sheep liked to talk a big game about confrontation, but the vast majority of them would do nothing more than bleat helplessly if you were confident enough. Scriabin was _always_ confident.

"This kind of thing is meant for socializing, you know." Scriabin knew this weakpoint well. It was one of his favorite ones to play with, and Edgar always reacted to it so reliably. "Not that you'd know anything about that, my boy. Want to go to the school library and see if they have any reference material for help? It'd be very in-character for you to read about people rather than actually interact with them."

"I don't want to be here any longer than I have to be."

"As I said, this is supposed to be a social event," Scriabin said, around another bite. The cookie was good. Probably worth a dollar, not that Scriabin intended on paying for it. "Something that normal people do and enjoy, perhaps even look forward to, so I'm not surprised you're miserable. Would you like me to teach you, hold your little hand and show you how to talk to all the scary strangers? You know how charitable I can be." He smiled as Edgar gave him that annoyed frown he knew so well. Scriabin loved that look on his face. He always gave him exactly what he wanted, and his buttons were so easy to push.

"The only thing _you_ like to do at social events is make a scene," Edgar said, disapproving, and briefly a tinge of indignance warred with pride, and pride won as it always did. Scriabin _did_ like making scenes, making sure everyone was staring at him and could never ever ignore him. He was the greatest thing that would ever happen to these people. They didn't even know what he actually _was_. They should be grateful for the chance to just bask in his presence briefly. "I can see you thinking about it. Don't do it."

"You're so paranoid." Scriabin tilted his head at him, still smiling at the thought of being the center of everyone's attention. "You'll have to tell me what exactly it is you thought I was going to do later."

He liked the distrusting look Edgar got on his face too. How clear it was in his eyes, the slight movement of his eyebrows, the subtle internal mosaics of electrical impulses that pulled his mouth down just so. Scriabin had him memorized, inside and out. Not that Edgar would appreciate that, not that Scriabin did it for _him_. Scriabin had to know his property, of course, he had to know his home-

God _damn_ it, wrong word _again_.

"Excuse me," a female voice said beside them, and they turned to look. She was an average looking woman with black hair, a forced smile, and wide, somewhat vacant eyes; someone clearly putting on a persona for a social event against their will. "Who are-"

"See, you're not alone in-" Scriabin started, and Edgar elbowed him sharply. Indignation flared for a brief moment before he caught the look Edgar was giving him. 

Right. That one. The one that was supposed to remind Scriabin that other people could _hear_ him. Not that Scriabin needed to be reminded, he didn't _forget_ that. He never forgot that. He _always_ knew when and how he was speaking. Every time he'd gotten in trouble for saying something, it'd always been exactly what he'd wanted to say. Always.

 _See, you're not alone in being miserable in a social situation,_ Scriabin said, defiantly, to Edgar's silence. _Though that doesn't make it any less pathetic._

"I'm sorry, what were you saying?"

The woman tilted her head at Edgar, her false smile unchanged. "Who are you here for?"

"Uh, we're here on..." Minute movements, a flick of Edgar's eyes. Searching for a word, and Scriabin rifled through his card catalogue. _Behalf_ he decided, and Edgar was going to feel stupid about how formal it was after he said it. "We're here on the behalf of Todd. Uh, Todd Casil."

Edgar grimaced at the words as they came out of his mouth. _What a stupid way to phrase it,_ he could imagine Edgar saying to himself, _that sounds ridiculous. Like we're his messengers or something._

It was so satisfying to predict him perfectly. It always gave him a warm sense of accomplishment.

"Right, Todd!" She wrote something down on her clipboard. "He's in Ms. Bitters' class. And you are...?"

"Oh, I'm Edgar Vargas." Edgar touched his chest, and adrenaline shot through Scriabin, this was his chance! This was going to be so good. "And this is..." He always hesitated, the dumb idiot, like he thought somehow other people would be able to tell.

"Scriabin Vargas. I'm his husband," Scriabin said, smiling wide with his hands in his pockets. He closed his eyes behind his glasses at the startled noise Edgar made, a half-swallowed gasp. God, he wished he could _hear_ what he'd just done to him the _real_ way, he wished he could just roll around in all that frantic embarrassed panic that no doubt was gushing all through him. It would have been delicious, but it was still pretty good out here.

"How nice. Ms. Bitters is over there." She pointed with her pen across the room at an old woman dressed entirely in black. Her white hair was pulled up in a tight bun, she looked like a skeleton and had the posture of a praying mantis. He was fairly sure Edgar had had her for a teacher himself, and she hadn't looked much different back then. How old _was_ she? 

Fairly sure. Edgar's memories could be spotty on the details. It came with forcibly changing them from both ends. A bit like wet newspaper. He filed the analogy for later, it might be fun to use in a lecture with Edgar when he got bored.

"Did Mr. and Mrs. Casil ask you to come?" She was still smiling at them, although there was a bit of confusion to it. "We haven't heard from them lately, and I don't remember them mentioning you."

Right, this was Scriabin's territory. He took one hand out of his pocket to gesture to one side, at the same time moving it in front of Edgar's chest in a subtle _get out of the way_ gesture he knew Edgar would pick up on.

"Oh, we're old friends of the family. We live in the area, and really, we had plans tonight ourselves, but," fuck, what were Todd's parents' names? Shit, Scriabin didn't know. He'd never asked. Redirect, let her fill in the gaps herself, don't pause, don't hesitate. "As much as they would have _loved_ to be here for Todd, they'd booked a trip for their anniversary ages ago, and the tickets were nonrefundable, so they begged us to cover for them tonight." 

God, he had the perfect knife in his hand and it was _so_ easy to twist. Scriabin tilted his head towards Edgar, an entirely trustworthy smile on his face. "Now, my dear husband here wasn't sure if we should come, seeing as we aren't _technically_ family, but I think the differences are really negligible after a certain point. With how much we care for Todd, and how involved we've been in his life since he was born, we really might as well be family to him. Isn't that right?" He just barely kept _my boy_ from coming out, damn it, it would have been _so perfect_ but it would ruin their cover. 

Edgar's face was so red, he was choking on disbelief that Scriabin would do this to him, and it almost hurt how hard Scriabin was smiling. This was the most fun he'd had in weeks. He had to treasure every moment of this, every single beautiful moment of it.

"Yes," Edgar managed to get out, taking in a quick breath afterwards like the word itself had been blocking his air. "Yes, we... we care a lot about Todd, we want to make sure everything's going well..."

"It's possible we may be looking after Todd more often from now on..." Scriabin tapped his finger against his chin, thoughtful and so innocently curious. "You know, his parents are just so busy lately, so just for safety's sake, it might be a good idea to update his emergency contact information... where would we do that, exactly?"

"Oh, Greg over there can handle that for you." She pointed to a man behind a table with a three ring binder, sprawled across his chair and snoring openly. "I'm glad Todd has someone to look after him while his parents are gone..."

She suspected nothing, of course she didn't, Scriabin was extremely good at this. "Oh, of course, we have only his best interests at heart. Don't we, dear?"

The look on Edgar's face! His wide eyes, how hard he was blushing, the sheer helpless dismay radiating from him. Adorable, and he corrected himself with a mental shake of the head. No, hilarious.

"Yes," Edgar said, thinly and he was shaking now! Actually shaking!

"Ha ha! You two are cute," she said, without actually looking at them. "Have fun tonight!" 

The woman waved at them with that same fake smile, which Scriabin was happy to return to her, and off she went. Scriabin counted gleefully in his head. Three, two, one...

Edgar grabbed his upper arm and yanked him close, hissing under his breath. "Scriabin! What the fuck! Why did you say that?"

Scriabin grinned at him, his eyes half-closed, just drinking it in. "So I could see that look on your face. It's even better than I imagined it."

Edgar gave him a little shake, and he could feel his grip through his coat and shirt. _Not too hard_ he cautioned automatically, then caught himself. Damn it, again! That was the last time, he told himself.

"We're supposed to be brothers, we're not supposed to be-" And he choked on the word because he always did, just like Scriabin knew he would. He was so, so predictable. All his little issues lined up like water glasses for Scriabin to play.

"Are you going to tell her that? Can you imagine what she'd say? What she'd think? 'Oh, I'm sorry, me and him are actually brothers, he just _said_ we were married because...' what, Edgar? Can you finish that sentence for me? I don't think you can," Scriabin said the last sentence in a singsong kind of voice.

"Damn it." Edgar let him go to pinch the bridge of his nose with a heavy breath. "Damn it, _damn_ it. I can't believe you'd do something like this. No, of course I do, how could you _not_? I knew I should have left you at home."

"Too late now, my boy. Now we have to keep up the act, or else everyone's going to think we're _really_ unfit parents."

"We're not-"

"Oh, we are, even if you won't admit it."

"We're not _married_."

"We might as well be, honestly." Scriabin wasn't sure where the little negative twinge inside came from. He couldn't connect it to anything logical. He was just doing this to get under Edgar's skin, and he was doing a great job of that. There wasn't any reason for anything else to be involved. "And if you don't want to cause a scene, as you said, you're going to have to play along."

"When we get home, I swear to God, Scriabin..."

"Mm, but that's later. Right now, we're husband and loving husband." As smug and sarcastic as could be, although for some reason that made his skin prickle. "We should probably decide on nicknames, don't you think? Which do you prefer, dear? Darling? Honey? Babe? Babe has a casual kind of ring to it, that could be fun."

"Scriabin-" Edgar was covering his face with one hand, and he was blushing even harder now. He made it so easy! He watched the emotional turmoil on his face with great relish, luxuriated in the knowledge that he'd caused it without any effort. "I can't believe you're doing this _now_ , of all times and places."

"Where else could I do it? There are so many new ways to embarrass and humiliate you now that I'm out here. It's like being a kid in a candy store."

"You're _always_ acting like a kid. You don't think _anything_ through."

Scriabin _hated_ it when he said things like that. Lording over the fact he was older, that he came _first_ , like that somehow made him more legitimate. "That's your problem now though, isn't it?"

"Goddamn it." Edgar sighed, rubbing at his eyes, and he was still blushing at least. Scriabin always liked to see that. "You're going to regret this eventually, and _I'm_ the one who's going to end up paying for it."

"Yes, that's how it normally goes." Scriabin finished the punch he was drinking, then just threw the cup on the floor. Not his problem anymore. Edgar gave him a disapproving look, just as he thought he would, and Scriabin smiled at him in return. 

_Go ahead, my boy. I know you want to._

And Scriabin's smile widened as Edgar sighed heavily, picked up the cup, and set it on the table nearby.

 _Oh Edgar,_ Scriabin thought, in a way that didn't warrant any further examination, and still smiling, he set his sights on a nearby couple. Perfect. With this kind of momentum, he couldn't stop now. He took Edgar's arm and started pulling him towards them before he could think of trying to resist.

"Scriabin, what are you...?" Edgar said, his voice uneven with his footsteps, but he followed him dutifully, as he should.

"I told you, we're supposed to socialize." Scriabin didn't try to keep the glee out of his voice. This was the best idea he'd ever had, and the dismayed look on Edgar's face just confirmed it. "It's my husbandly duty to compensate for your failings, dear."

"God- stop it-" Edgar barely managed to say, flushing red again, which would only make it even better when they actually talked to this other couple. What they'd think of Edgar, seeing him like that! Every little aspect of this fantastic scenario was falling into place so perfectly. Scriabin was the smartest person in the entire world, and he didn't even have to try that hard at it. He was _that_ perfect and everyone else was _that_ garbage.

"Hello there, so sorry to interrupt." Scriabin stopped by the other couple, still holding onto Edgar's arm so he didn't get any ideas about escaping. "Just thought we'd say hi, we're a bit new here. Who are you here for?"

The two humans turned to look at them, as unremarkable to Scriabin as any of the others here. None of them had any of the fascinating little details that Edgar had, not that Scriabin would ever tell him that. He didn't need to feed Edgar's overinflated sense of self-importance. The couple had dark hair and stained clothes, they both looked tired, and they both did not look like they wanted to be here. To be fair, _no_ one looked like they wanted to be here.

Except perhaps Scriabin, although it was for reasons no one would ever be able to guess.

"Oh... hello," the woman said, blinking a bit in confusion. What kind of picture did he and Edgar present to others, he wondered? "I'm Linda... this is Frank." She gestured to the man beside her. "We're Victor's parents."

"Nice to meet you." As much fun as it would have been to start tearing these two apart, Scriabin knew it'd be _much_ more fun to try to be pleasant. Then Edgar's indignant embarrassment at what he was saying would look even worse to everyone else. "We're Todd's parents... oh, well, I suppose we're not his _real_ parents, they're busy, but we're watching him for now. I'm Scriabin, and this is Edgar. Say hello," What was the word he wanted to try? "Babe."

God, he felt the little shock of it go all the way through Edgar's body, his head twisted towards him in stunned disbelief, and Scriabin gave him a benign smile.

"Scriabin? That's a weird name," Frank said, giving him a look.

"Oh, after the composer, my parents just loved his work. It's not the most common name, I will admit." Scriabin's name was perfect and normal, but he knew that it didn't seem that way to most close-minded simpletons. "You wouldn't _believe_ how awkward it was after that Zeitgeist movie came out."

"Oh, yeah, now that you mention it... you even look like Scriabin." Linda tilted her head. "Actually, you both kind of do..."

"Oh, you don't have to tell me that. It was a nightmare fielding all the questions about it I got after it came out." This took Scriabin no effort at all. This had been his entire life. Edgar, of course, was just standing there stupidly. Such a useless man. He'd be nothing without Scriabin beside him. "Wasn't it the worst, babe?"

It still felt strange coming out of his mouth, he would have preferred something with a bit more sophistication, but the reaction it got out of Edgar was worth it. That little jolt through his arm, that little flush of heat coming to his face and the back of his neck. Scriabin could see it, just picture it, as Edgar desperately tried to get the cogs in his head to start turning again as Scriabin kept throwing wrench after wrench into them. _Dance for me, my boy, like you always do._

"Oh, yes..." Edgar cleared his throat. "I- we ended up getting a lot of attention because of it, it was very awkward..."

"So, uh..." Frank sounded a bit uncomfortable as he looked to one side. "You're...?"

Wasn't babe enough of a hint? Some people were hopeless, but Scriabin wasn't going to pass up the chance to twist the knife further. He was getting a _lot_ of chances to do that, much to his delight. 

"Oh, we're married." Scriabin hugged Edgar's arm tighter to him, just so he could feel it go through him again, which it did. That delightful little ripple of angry, humiliated shock that he knew so well, that only he could pull out of him in just that kind of way. Only Scriabin could do that to him, only he knew the exact ways to do it, and he was proud of that. He knew Edgar perfectly. "How long has it been now, dear?"

Whoops, wrong endearment, but that wasn't the point anyway. He felt Edgar stiffen, saw him turn his head to fix Scriabin with wide eyes that said _what the fuck, now you're doing this to me too?_ which just made Scriabin grin at him wider. Of course he was doing this to him. Like he could be satisfied with tormenting him in just _one_ way.

"Uh..." Edgar said, to fill the silence more than anything, still looking Scriabin in the eyes. _Give me a hint_ , he could imagine Edgar thinking, and Scriabin tilted his head. Now it was a challenge, now it was a test.

 _You'd better say the right amount of time, or you're going to be in trouble,_ Scriabin said to him, as smug as ever, and then it faltered again with that sudden stab of pain. Right. He couldn't hear him anymore. Well, he could read Edgar's expression perfectly without reading his thoughts, so if Edgar wasn't completely incompetent (a big if), he had to have an idea of what Scriabin was thinking in return.

Frank and Linda were definitely staring at them now, since on further thought, this wasn't a question that took this long to answer.

Scriabin guessed that Edgar was just going to pick a random number, and the first random number he was going to pick would be...

"It's been... about five years now..." Edgar cleared his throat again as he struggled in vain not to show anything he was thinking. Edgar had a lot of practice keeping emotion from his face and voice before Scriabin had come along and broken everything from the inside out. Edgar might be able to be unbothered by everyone else, but not Scriabin. No one could pull emotional reactions out of him like Scriabin could. Again, he felt that warm glow of pride and satisfaction. 

He could just imagine the panic in Edgar's head, at having to play along with this, having to _contribute_ to the whole farce. Five years! He wanted them to have been married for five years! Oh, Scriabin was going to needle the hell out of him for that when they got home.

For a second, he was a little surprised that Edgar had said years and not months, but then he caught himself. He and Edgar had spent their entire lives together, or they might as well have at this point. If anything, five years was nothing more than a pittance compared to how deeply their lives were intertwined, not that any of the pathetic rabble here would understand it. What they had was unique, it was _special_. If anyone here actually knew, they'd die of envy over how Scriabin owned not just Edgar, but his entire life. Every second of every thought belonged to Scriabin and Scriabin alone, as well it should.

Five years, he thought again for some reason.

"That's... nice," Frank said, clearly uncomfortable. That wasn't how Scriabin wanted to make Edgar unhappy, he wanted to torment him in a _specific_ way. Scriabin gave Frank a look, similar to the one he'd given the man by the table, daring him to say something. Daring him to get up the courage to do it.

Linda touched Frank's arm, caught his attention, and he stood down, as Scriabin thought he would. Everyone here was a coward. They should be thankful that Scriabin felt like playing a fun game with Edgar instead of ripping them all to pieces.

"That _is_ nice," she said, and Frank backed down further. She seemed to mean it. Back on the correct rails with this again. "How did you two meet?"

He could feel Edgar's arm tense - he was, of course, terrible at improvisation. He had no idea how to answer that question, but that was what Scriabin was for. That was what he did. His mind worked at lightning speed compared to these plebeians.

"Oh, it's a cute story," Scriabin said, smiling and casual with a wave of his hand. He could feel Edgar shifting his weight beside him, bracing himself. "We were in a bookshop together, you remember?" Scriabin turned to look at him, smiling in a way that he was sure said _you have no idea what I'm about to do to you, and I'm enjoying it so much_.

Which was an expression Edgar was familiar with, and he could see that unease and uncertainy he knew well in response. 

_Now now, you have to play along with me, or there's going to be trouble._

_..._

Damn it. Again.

"Oh, yes, the one on Burglin Street," Edgar said, with that same wary look. There was something in his eyes Scriabin didn't like, the hint of him getting an idea. He didn't like it when Edgar got _ideas_. "Where we met Devi, you remember?"

Scriabin's smile faltered for a second. Hmm.

"Of course," Scriabin said smoothly, because he was certainly not going to let anyone know how quickly he was thinking. "I was just looking for the latest Simons book, and I saw him reading by the window..."

He couldn't actually recall if there was a reading nook at Devi's bookstore, not that it mattered or he cared. A compelling story had details to it, and a good lie knew when to add and take them away. All he had to do was study the picture he'd created in his head and decide which parts of it to dole out.

"We do look an awful lot alike, as you mentioned earlier... have you heard of the concept of doppelgangers? The idea that there might be someone out there that looks exactly like you, waiting for the chance to kill you and take your place?" He felt Edgar's arm go hard and tense at that, and his own skin prickled at the sudden unwelcome depth. Perhaps he should have picked a better comparison, that one had a lot more baggage than he wanted to deal with right now. 

Frank and Linda looked a little disconcerted - obviously this concept was unfamiliar to them. Well, they did look rather stupid. "We're both still here, obviously, so he wasn't my doppelganger after all, but it would have been shamefully incurious of me to not investigate further. So, I decided to come over and introduce myself, but he was so involved in his book, he didn't even notice me standing next to him. When I finally did say something, he jumped like a rabbit, just 'Eek!'" Scriabin spread the fingers of one hand quickly. "He was so flustered, it was cute." 

Cute, ha. Like Edgar could ever be anything even remotely approaching such a thing. 

"I asked him what he was reading, and then we got to talking... and before I knew it, we started to meet up regularly to discuss the latest books we'd read. Sort of a private book club for just the two of us, you know?"

Frank and Linda were listening, buying every word of this ridiculous story. Of course they were. Edgar meanwhile had a strange expression on his face. Scriabin expected disbelief, or annoyance, or more embarrassment, but it wasn't any of those things. Edgar was listening as well, and he had something soft in his eyes that Scriabin didn't want or like, not right now.

There was nothing soft about this, nothing worth thinking about, it was simply a lie told to torment Edgar in the ways he knew best, to force him to play along with a story that he knew he'd hate, to create a role for him he _had_ to fulfill in whatever little fantasy Scriabin could spin out. He could make Edgar do _anything_ in whatever story he told them, and Edgar would _have_ to agree to it. Power, control over him - that warm light in his chest he knew well and could understand.

Whatever thing in him that saw the look in Edgar's eyes and wanted more, that reached out to join hands in commiseration with it - that he did not understand and didn't have at _all_ , period. Nothing like that was happening.

He was just fucking with him, that's all it was. That's all it ever was. That's all it'd ever be to Edgar, and that's all it'd ever be to him. Damn him for giving him that look now. What the hell.

"I'm sure you've noticed by now that Edgar is a little _shy_ ," Scriabin said, intending to shame him for it, waiting for Edgar to twitch at it which he did, a little, but it didn't make that stupid thing in his eyes go away. "He doesn't do very well with other people." Trying again, but it still wasn't working. Scriabin's chest felt annoyingly tight. Stupid body always had to ruin things. "So, I was the one who really did most of the work as we got to know each other..."

Which actually wasn't that inaccurate, on further thought. Well, a good lie did have elements of truth to it. 

"And as you can imagine, I had to make the first move and ask him out as well," Scriabin continued, smooth as ever, unbothered. Entirely unbothered by this, by the image of it he could see quite clearly in his mind now. The two of them sitting together at a cafe, Scriabin as handsome and confident as always, charming and attractive, placing his hand over Edgar's in a silent and perfect sign of his intent, and how Edgar would have blinked at him, confused in that stupid endearing way he always was, slowly turning red at the realization of what Scriabin was telling him.

Where the hell had endearing come from? Damn it. He really had to focus. None of this was coming through his voice, he was too good at this for that.

God, fuck, he couldn't get the image out of his head now and suddenly he despised it with all the intensity he could muster because that was a lot better than how it _hurt_.

But he was _not_ going to let that show. Edgar would just make him miserable about it, like he made him miserable about everything. He'd show him.

"He was so confused at first." Scriabin focused on keeping his voice smooth, words smooth, everything smooth, everything was fine, he was not going to look at Edgar or his dumb face or the dumb look in his eyes he had for no stupid reason. "I don't know if anyone had really shown much of an interest in him before..."

"There was something about him," Edgar said, and Scriabin went rigid, blinking. Fuck. Fuck, he wasn't supposed to do that. Scriabin cleared his throat, glanced at Edgar out of the corner of his eye, and the absolute bastard had his smirk on his face. God damn it. He'd figured it out, he figured it out, shit. Scriabin really thought he'd be too stupid to...

"And not just how hard he was to ignore, as I'm sure you've noticed," Edgar said with ease he should _not_ have. "I remember when we were reading this book, Rise of the Dracularions-"

"That book was _terrible_." Because for all of how angry Scriabin was, he was not about to let that get away without comment.

"It was." _Thank you._ "Scriabin got so upset over it, how the characters kept doing things that didn't make sense, and how people kept _trusting_ each other."

"As I said, the book was terrible." Scriabin held a hand out level, his fingers spread, barely glancing over to the other couple. "I can't _stand_ poor writing."

"You always want to know _why_ anyone is doing anything. You wanted explanations, even though the book wasn't going to give you any. So you made your own, and then you got upset about _those_." Edgar tilted his head to look at Scriabin out of the corner of his eye, still with that knowing smile he couldn't _believe_ Edgar had taken from him. "He wanted me to agree with his conclusions about the main character's motivations... really, he insisted on it. And when I did, he looked so relieved... I think that was when I realized how much my opinion _mattered_ to him."

Bastard. Bastard! Fucking _bastard_!! Pivot, grab the knife in mid-air, throw it back. "You don't know how hard it was to even drag an opinion out of him in the first place. He has-" Scriabin managed to catch himself before the strike, sheathe his claws. No, he had to play this carefully. "It was so hard for him to believe that any of his opinions had any merit, after spending so much time alone before I came along. You can't imagine how hard I had to work to give him the confidence to have _any_ feelings openly."

"He's always worn his heart on his sleeve... I still remember when he told me that he'd never really _connected_ with anyone before he met me."

Connected? _Connected_? Edgar thought Scriabin would connect with him? With someone like _him_? The arrogant, self-centered, vain-

"Do you remember how you told me that, on the first- date we had?" Edgar couldn't quite keep his voice wavering on the word, although he didn't look any less smug for it. "Dear."

Scriabin's smile didn't change, he didn't break eye contact. _Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you._

This was his element, this was his lifeblood, he was better at this than anyone. Sure, he'd forgotten that Edgar could spin him into this lie as easily as he could do the same to him, but he wasn't going to let that rattle him.

Scriabin could barely spare a thought for or a glance at Frank and Linda, who were watching this with the same kind of confused fascination you might watch two animals in a subway tunnel fight over a slice of pizza.

Quickly, quickly, string it together quickly. "That was at that Chinese place, wasn't it? The one that's entirely automated, Eat or Die?" Which was indeed a real restaurant, although Edgar had refused to go to it when Scriabin had asked. Coward. "The one with no staff or human interaction? One of your favorite places to go for that very reason. I know how nervous you get around other people... really, it's amazing how well he's doing right now, honestly," Scriabin said, without looking at Frank or Linda at all. They weren't a part of this anymore.

"Yes, that was it," Edgar said, because of course he _had_ to, he had to go along with what Scriabin was saying or they were going to look crazy, and because Scriabin was in control of the situation and in control of this lie, and in control of Edgar as he _always_ was. "I remember you telling me how frightened you were of starting a real relationship with someone, after all the other ones you'd had that didn't work out. You were so anxious about trusting me. It was cute, in its own way."

Scriabin kept smiling at him, one eye twitching behind his glasses. _You motherfucker._

"We had a lot of arguments at first as we got to know each other... really, for a long time, we just drove each other crazy. But, in the end, somehow... here we are." Edgar held out his free hand, still hatefully at ease. "But really, I don't want to bore you with all the details..."

"You see, what did I tell you? He's really not good at talking to other people." Scriabin looked back to them himself for appearances, since he did not give the slightest shit about what they thought or how they were reacting to any of this. His attention was on one person and one person only. He brushed some of his hair carefully from his face. "Victor, you said? Which class is he in? We should really get to know some of Todd's friends since we're here."

Scriabin flipped through the card catalogue. Victor, Victor... was he the one who'd shoved Todd into a puddle? The one that got savaged by a dog while Todd ran screaming? The one who got hit with a baseball and had their eye knocked out? No wait, that was a girl. Maybe he was the one who'd torn up one of Todd's stories? Damn it, he couldn't remember. He was too blazingly angry to focus.

"Oh, yes, Victor..." Linda said with a relieved laugh, and Frank let out a tight breath. "Just the other day, he said the cutest thing..."

It was entirely too easy to smile and nod, ask a question every now and then to keep them going, while Scriabin seethed internally and tried to think of just how to get Edgar back for this. He was going to get him back for this. What the hell kind of story was that, him telling Edgar he was _afraid_? Edgar telling him that he could _trust_ him? Well, technically, Edgar had actually told him that a few times, but Scriabin had never been stupid enough to believe it.

God, how did Edgar even picture it? Did he even picture it? Edgar had never been imaginative, he couldn't just call up perfect mental images of things like Scriabin could, complete with every flourish and detail. What must he have imagined for that first date? The two of them together, standing outside some random restaurant (before Scriabin had clarified which one), eating tacos (of course he would have imagined tacos, the predictable fuck), Scriabin acting confident and breezy as he always did, until Edgar asked him where this was going, what exactly it was that he wanted from him. And, no doubt, Edgar imagined Scriabin looking away, getting awkward, unable to put it into words (like Scriabin could _ever_ be at a loss for words), trying to explain what had happened before (like Scriabin could ever fail at a relationship if he didn't want to), until he reached out and took Scriabin's hand and gave him one of those stupid awful smiles, entirely too gentle and so fake it was almost insulting.

"It's alright. You can trust me. I won't hurt you," Edgar no doubt imagined himself saying, and he no doubt imagined Scriabin being instantly soothed by such an awful lie, just falling right into it without any kind of doubt or caution at all, because of _course_ that's how Edgar would picture things, that's exactly how he would imagine it.

Edgar's mental image just made him all the more furious, that wasn't what would have happened. That wasn't what would have happened at _all_ , and now Scriabin couldn't take it back because Edgar had said it first. Scriabin would have come up with a _much_ better story, and it figured Edgar would try to take control of something and completely botch it. What else did he do? Edgar ruined _everything_.

 _Your imagination is so bad it's insulting,_ Scriabin said to him, while he smiled and nodded through the conversation. _What pathetic little book did you read that in? And now you have to inflict it on me as well? Forcing me to watch you play-act out this sentimental, self-congratulatory farce?_

And then the lack of response, and the fact he'd done it _again_ , just made him angrier. God, he hated him so much sometimes.

"Well, it was nice talking to you," Linda said, and Scriabin snapped back to attention. The conversation was over, thankfully, because there was someone else he desperately wanted to talk to. 

"Yes, you too," Scriabin said, smiling, and the two of them waved as Frank and Linda wandered back off into the thin crowd, talking quietly to each other as they did so.

"You bastard," Scriabin hissed at him, grabbing Edgar's arm, and Edgar just looked down at him with _his_ smile.

"I said it because I wanted to see the look on your face." Scriabin hadn't set up that line for him, but of course Edgar said it anyway, because of _course_ he couldn't pass up an opportunity to throw Scriabin's words back in his face. "Remember, this was _your_ idea."

"You're making a _big_ mistake." Scriabin let him go to give him a warning point. "I'm a million times better at this than you. You're going to regret this."

"This was _your_ idea. I didn't want to do _any_ of this," Edgar said again, with a shrug of his shoulders.

"You wouldn't think it from what you said. Since when are you some kind of grand gay romantic?"

"Since you _forced_ me to be one for your own amusement, you pain in the ass." Edgar had a touch of familiar frustration to his voice now. "And guess what, Scriabin? If _I_ have to play along, so do _you_. You've got no one to blame but yourself for this."

He _hated_ it when Edgar said that to him, he said it entirely too often and it was _never_ true. "I swear to god, when we get home..."

"But that's later you said, remember?" Goddamn it, _again_. He _hated_ it when Edgar turned his words around on him. He was definitely going to make him sorry. "Right now we have to do _this_ , and it's _your_ fault. You made your bed, now you have to lie in it."

Like hell was Scriabin going to lie in it alone though. He was going to make very sure of that.

"I can't believe you came up with such a shitty story about how we met," Scriabin growled as he looked around the group for another set of targets, another wall against which to rebound volleys at Edgar.

"That was _your_ story. I didn't say anything." Edgar held up his hands to abdicate it entirely. " _Your_ idea."

"Whatever, fucker. You're going to regret this." Scriabin grabbed his hand and dragged him across the room, and Edgar followed along behind him as he _should_ , as he always _would_ , if he knew what was good for him. "Try not to fail this one up as hard as you did the last one."

"It was _your_ story..." Edgar said, a bit faintly for some reason.

It couldn't have been Scriabin's story, because then he wouldn't be so mad about it, and he wouldn't be thinking about it so much.

Scriabin was _not_ going to be happy until he won one of the conversations. It took two more of them until he did. The ridiculous, stupid story of their fake marriage became harder and harder to navigate without contradicting themselves, an invisible game of chess no one else was even aware of. It was a complicated puzzle, but Scriabin was good at puzzles, he was good at challenges and he was _not_ going to let this beat him. He just had to keep thinking about it, to make sure he kept track of all the pieces.

Each couple they talked to was unimportant, he forgot them the instant they walked away. With the first, Scriabin again brought up how socially inept Edgar was, how he was a complete loser who had no friends, although it wasn't in those exact words. He had to frame it as though it was compelling, as though Scriabin _liked_ it for some reason, was _attracted_ to someone who seemed like they really needed his presence in their life. Like Edgar's life had been empty by choice until Scriabin came into it, and he chose to let Scriabin in.

Of course, everyone needed Scriabin in their lives, it was Scriabin who gave any life any kind of meaning. That was very simple and obvious. Edgar didn't even realize how much that emphasized his own codependent neediness, even if he wasn't the one who'd said it. Such an open book of psychological damage. Anyone could see it.

Scriabin talked about how he had to teach Edgar how to socialize, teach him how to talk to people, said in so many words to these random strangers what a failure Edgar was. He could feel Edgar tense beside him, how he caught his breath in his typical attempts to keep out all emotion and remain unaffected, even though Scriabin _knew_ he was affecting him, he always did. Scriabin talked about taking Edgar to a party and how Edgar had been so unhappy there, hiding in a corner, that Scriabin eventually had taken him back home and they had their own party, just by themselves. _Isn't that sad? Isn't that the most pathetic thing you've ever heard?_ he said, like the two humans could hear him any more than Edgar could.

Then Edgar said he'd liked the party with just the two of them far better than the other, and Scriabin's chest got tight again for some stupid reason, his face warming as Edgar scored his hit. Damn it, he was better at this than Scriabin thought. He kept finding little chinks in his armor that Scriabin shouldn't have.

Edgar talked about how happy Scriabin had been when it was just the two of them, how Scriabin had melted when Edgar said he was the only one he needed, and it was killing him inside how he couldn't deny it, killing him to have to listen to these baldfaced lies. His stupid body kept reacting in nonsensical ways, something in him twisting like a snake tying itself in a knot at how Edgar had managed to trap him into something so sentimental and cliche. The man had no imagination - Scriabin could picture the shitty scene like in a Hallmark movie, the two of them lit by candlelight, a bottle of wine between them, snow outside. Maybe one of them was even wearing some kind of hideous ugly sweater with some kind of fat dog thing on it. Scriabin could just see it in Edgar's mind, what a stupid stupid image.

God, he _hated_ it when Edgar turned things around on him. As loath as he was to admit it, he was far more upset about that stupid image than Edgar was. Edgar just looked satisfied with it, smiled at the thought of it, reveling internally with smug pleasure at how he'd hijacked the narrative from Scriabin. He couldn't see it on his face, but Scriabin was sure it was there.

He _hated_ the image Edgar painted of him. Scriabin's image of Edgar, as a pathetic boring shut-in that was blessed with the attention of a popular idol among men, was accurate. That's what made Scriabin's stories about him so compelling, that grain of truth. He could paint Edgar as shy, and quiet, and thoughtful, and those were all nicer names for what he actually was, which was a failure. He was sure Edgar knew what he was saying, and that behind his placid smile, it must have been eating him up inside.

Edgar, instead, painted Scriabin with a bunch of lies. Which might have been symbolically appropriate, not that Scriabin particularly cared about that in this context. He talked about Scriabin being confident, outgoing, charming, and that was true at least. A grain of truth, anyone knew that. And then he described Scriabin as secretly anxious, insecure, betrayed in his past and skittish about trusting someone again, quietly pining for understanding and affection from someone who'd accept him for who he truly was. All of which came from _nowhere_ , Edgar just invented that out of whole cloth, which on one hand was a bit impressive since Edgar had no goddamn imagination. What a pathetic picture Edgar had to paint of him, to try and keep control over the story and the situation. Edgar talked about how Scriabin was bowled over by even slight gestures of affection or thoughtfulness, which was goddamn ridiculous. Like Scriabin could ever be affected by something as simple as sharing an umbrella in the rain. Like he'd ever be stupid enough to forget his umbrella. That had actually happened once but the two of them sharing an umbrella didn't _mean_ anything, not the way Edgar talked about it.

It definitely didn't mean anything to Scriabin then, and it didn't mean anything to him now.

Scriabin told a story about how Edgar had forgotten some important papers at home one night and had to go to work without them, rubbing his incompetence and forgetfulness in his face. Edgar added that Scriabin had come to his work and brought them to him, without even asking. Like Scriabin would ever do something that pathetic. He'd done it back Before, when Edgar had forgotten something at work and Scriabin had dug it out of his memories for him, but that wasn't at all the same.

God damn, he hated that man.

He blamed trying to keep track of all the pieces of the story for how distracted he was with the second couple. Again he'd dragged Edgar over to them, sure he'd win this one, and Edgar had followed without complaint, although he looked more thoughtful now than smug. No doubt wondering to himself how he could have bested Scriabin at anything. It had to be a freak accident.

This time, Scriabin was sure he had the perfect story. He told them about how once he'd gotten himself badly hurt. Fallen off a bike down a hill, he came up with on the spot. Hurt his shoulder, as he gave Edgar a pointed look. Oh, Scriabin remembered. He remembered what he'd been through to protect Edgar from himself, how he'd nearly been torn apart by forces Edgar couldn't even imagine, and how Edgar didn't even believe it had happened. Not until They had told him outright, because he never believed Scriabin about anything, especially if it was important. 

He was trying to think of some way to say it was Edgar's fault without outright accusing him, since these were supposed to be cute little quaint love stories to these dumb rubes, when Edgar cut in. He said he'd come by to see him, and seeing Scriabin as bruised and battered as he was, insisted on bandaging and cleaning him up.

Scriabin glowed with anger, and with the reluctant realization that there was that grain of truth again. Edgar _had_ come to help him, back then. Edgar didn't even realize the significance of what he did, about how _powerful_ his attention and care was for someone like Scriabin, in the state he was in. Edgar never knew what power he had, he never appreciated it, he always gave it to others because he was weak. Scriabin had always hated that about him.

Edgar looked to him after he said that, expecting Scriabin to wrest the story back from him, and instead Scriabin looked down and mumbled that he _did_ do that. And Edgar blinked at him in surprise, waiting for the catch, but it didn't come. And then he got that stupid soft look in his eyes, the stupid man. Stupid, stupid man. Fuck this stupid body, how it made his face get hot for no reason.

Edgar followed that story with one of his own, in perhaps one of his misguided attempts at empathy, saying that Scriabin wasn't the only one who'd gotten himself injured in one way or another. Scriabin snapped to attention internally, everything alert at the thought, running wildly over his memories to try and pinpoint what Edgar was talking about.

Edgar said that he'd gotten into an altercation with someone who was picking on someone else, and when he said the name Krik it was like a switch flipped inside Scriabin and his vision went red.

He knew where this story was going, how it ended, and how dare he, how _dare_ he? How dare he do this, how dare he put himself in danger in some ill-thought-out attempt to one-up him, the selfish asshole. How dare he put himself in danger, it blazed its way through every fiber of his being, how dare he put himself in danger now when Scriabin was here, when Scriabin was powerful, when Scriabin _cared_.

When he cared about the lie they were constructing together, and keeping control of it, and nothing else.

Scriabin broke in so sharply that he felt Edgar start beside him, his arm going tense in his grip. Krik had _attempted_ to hurt Edgar, but Scriabin had come to his rescue, a perfect knight in shining armor, for all the concept filled him with loathing. Maybe Scriabin had been wounded because of Edgar, and he'd reluctantly allowed Edgar the honor of trying to heal him and make up for it, but Scriabin was _not_ going to heal Edgar in return for something that never happened. He was _not_ going to let him tell that kind of story.

Edgar stared at him after that lie, perhaps amazed at how thoroughly Scriabin had obliterated any chance he had of forcing him into something like that. And hesitantly, Edgar nudged the conversation in a different direction while Scriabin shook with anger by his side. He wanted to spread his fell wings and destroy all of these worthless ants, burn everything and everyone in the room to ash.

And Scriabin made a noise he didn't intend, one that Edgar noticed which made it worse, when he remembered. His wings, his wings, his perfect bone and yarn wings, his symbol of how far he'd come, his proof of how he could take any weakness, his or Edgar's, and turn it into strength. His poetic, beautifully meaningful wings he'd spent so much time on, that symbolized so much, that had been violently, agonizingly ripped from his back and torn into tiny pieces right in front of his eyes, when that thing had come through and he'd had to fight to protect him. Even Edgar couldn't heal that.

Pain compounding on pain, compounding on pain, as Scriabin shut his eyes tightly and squeezed Edgar's arm, and he ignored Edgar saying his name as a question. He'd had it all planned out, he'd been waiting for the perfect moment to show them to Edgar, he'd played it out so many times in his thoughts, and he never got the chance. Edgar didn't even know he'd had them, he never saw them, and now he never would. Edgar would never see them. Scriabin spent all that time on them, he was so proud of them, he was so looking forward to the horrified look on Edgar's face when he revealed them, and Edgar never even saw them. He would never, ever, see them.

Pain, pain, pain, and Scriabin did what he did best, and turned it into anger. No, he was not going to let himself be distracted. This was a series of battles, and Scriabin always won his battles. He _always_ won, and he was going to win this one. He was not going to give up, he wasn't going to let anything stop him. He just had to focus.

Scriabin tuned back into the conversation, and Edgar was telling a story of how they'd spent Christmas together for the first time. He had that smile on his face Scriabin couldn't take his eyes off of, sincerity that Scriabin was amazed he could fake so well in his eyes, as he said that he'd never had anyone to spend Christmas with before. He didn't know that was what Christmases could feel like.

Focus, focus, but it didn't help that that tight thing in his chest wasn't going away for all of his anger, or that persistent kind of warmth sometimes made it to his face, or how he kept running over this ridiculous false life together they'd made and focusing on all the little details. He kept bringing it into sharper and sharper relief in his mind as though he needed to convince Edgar of it, but Edgar wasn't here. He wasn't home anymore.

God _damn_ it, that word.

Scriabin was _always_ in control, he was in control of _everything_ , and that reality was refusing to bend to his will was a little _frustrating_ to him. He didn't know why he spent so much time on a story he didn't even get to tell, how he'd finely crafted the details of their first kiss for _no_ one, god, it made him angry. All of it played out perfectly in his mind's eye - Scriabin making the first move of course, as he always had to, using one hand to pull him in close and Edgar would make that little surprised sound he enjoyed so much, filled with tension at first that would drain out of him so perfectly. Scriabin would give him a rakish smile, and Edgar would do that quiet little laugh he did and say that he'd been waiting for him to do that, he'd _always_ been waiting for him to do that, and when he reached out to him again Edgar would give himself over to him willingly, completely, and god, FUCK. Why couldn't he stop thinking about it?! God DAMN it. There wasn't even a good way to work the ridiculous, cliche bullshit into a conversation, it was like he'd wasted his time making it up for no reason, which was even _more_ bullshit because it made him feel so _upset_. Playing it out over and over kept doing things to his stomach, kept feeding him adrenaline for no reason, pushed his bullshit body far enough that even his ears felt hot, made something in his chest hurt, like something awful was about to happen to him and only to him which made him feel like he was going crazy. He absolutely did _not_ want to feel _any_ of these things, especially in the middle of spinning an elaborate web of lies in silent, unseen battle with Edgar which needed him to _focus_.

He kept thinking about it, god _damn_ it, adding more detail to it against his will and some insane part of him wanted to show it to Edgar somehow, have him see and admire all the work Scriabin had put into it, hear what Edgar _thought_ about it, which was so absolutely, infuriatingly, mindsearingly stupid that Scriabin wasn't sure he'd ever been this mad at _himself_.

Edgar, the bastard, just stood there at his side, trying his best to keep up with the conversation, completely oblivious to all of it. Completely oblivious, the bastard. _Why can't you hear me anymore?_ Scriabin said, even though he knew the answer, because that familiar pain blended into his current anger in a way that he hoped would let him regain focus on what was _actually_ important. _You should know how miserable you make me. You should feel it. You should know. All you care about is yourself._

And Edgar looked at him, perhaps noticing how hard Scriabin's eyes were boring into him, and asked him if he remembered anything else about when they'd gone to that concert. Edgar had never gone to a concert in his life. He didn't know how to fill in the details, but Scriabin did. Edgar knew he did. Scriabin knew everything, and he took the reins from Edgar as he sighed, just perceptibly, in relief.

Scriabin was the master of himself, the master of this world, the master of everything. He took a deep calming breath, fixed his smile back in place, cleared his thoughts easily and perfectly. He could do this. He was not going to lose.

He was _not_ going to lose.

Scriabin looked over their history, tried to find weak spots, moments he could repurpose as weapons, and he found himself speculating, wondering, analyzing. 

The Edgar and Scriabin in this false pretense were similar to the two real ones, but different. Their relationship had developed under such different circumstances, it almost led to them becoming entirely different people around and to each other. What would it have been like, if that was how things really were? What would he have felt for Edgar, if things had been so uncomplicated between the two of them from the start?

What would it have been like if Edgar had been anywhere near as attentive and thoughtful as he was in all his lies? If he'd actually shown even a modicum of the affection he was all too happy to lie to other people about? What would that have been like? Would Scriabin have reacted to it the way Edgar always assumed he would?

How _would_ he have reacted to it?

He kept worrying at the thought like a bruise, like a cut on the inside of his cheek. It was doing his mood no favors. It wasn't just that it was distracting, but it brought up feelings that weren't even real, and didn't deserve any of the consideration or focus or power they had.

 _We basically are married_ , Scriabin had said to him before. Which was still true. But what would it have been like to be married like _this_?

Five years, he'd said.

The third time, that was when Scriabin won. He managed to get the conversation to the question of who had proposed and how. He was sure Edgar wanted control of that, he wanted control of everything, no doubt he wanted to lord his position as _first_ over Scriabin again, but not this time. Not this time, Scriabin was too quick for him. He knew Edgar was thinking of something quiet and personal, somewhere private, even someplace as pathetic and unromantic as his kitchen, maybe even over breakfast. God, Edgar could always find new depths to sink to. Who would propose to someone like that? It was almost insulting.

No, Scriabin took _that_ story from him, he was _not_ going to get control of that narrative. Edgar would just ruin it, he'd just use it as a way to smugly assert control over him, over the entire thing Scriabin had made up, make it his instead of Scriabin's. Thief, ingrate. Not this time.

Scriabin told a story, smiling, holding onto Edgar's arm to gauge his reaction, of taking Edgar back to the bookshop where they'd first met. Of how absolutely head-over-heels Edgar had fallen for him, how obvious he made it, how everyone knew - all of it Scriabin described in glowing terms to shame him as much as possible. He knew Edgar _hated_ being emotional, he'd _hate_ people knowing how he felt, and about another man no less. And he could feel Edgar twitching a little beside him, nervous movement, uncomfortable and warm, he could feel himself winning. 

Scriabin made sure to emphasize how willing he was to spend his life with Edgar in return, how he'd also fallen madly and irredeemably in love with him, how totally devoted he was to him, how he couldn't live his life without him... all of it to emphasize how none of that was true. Edgar would know it wasn't true, but the couple they were talking to wouldn't. That was what made it such a brilliant way to hurt him.

And that discomfort still radiated from Edgar as he shifted beside him, trapped as Scriabin tortured him perfectly. Edgar no doubt wished that Scriabin _was_ telling the truth, that Scriabin was just as needy and weak as he was and actually _did_ care about him on some level. Like Scriabin would ever be that stupid. After everything that had happened between them, Scriabin wasn't that stupid.

Because Scriabin knew he'd hate it - he remembered how uncomfortable Edgar had been when he'd been an unwitting spectator to it happening to someone else - he described getting down on one knee, making a huge sweeping speech in front of everyone about how he wanted to spend the rest of his life with him. Everyone staring at them both, everyone staring at how deeply uncomfortable and embarrassed Edgar would be if something like this ever actually happened. God, Edgar would _hate_ it if Scriabin ever did something like this to him, he would absolutely _hate_ it. Now Scriabin was tempted to actually do it to him in real life just to fuck with him. 

Scriabin said he held out the little cliche box with the ring in it (Where had he gotten the ring? Who cared?), enjoying the thought of how absolutely miserable Edgar would be in such a situation. That hilarious, pathetic look on his face pleading for him not to do this, searching desperately for a way to escape this humiliation, blushing hard and wide-eyed. Maybe he'd be close to embarrassed tears, maybe he could make him cry in public, that'd be the icing on the cake.

And Edgar said softly that he took the box, and he said yes.

Scriabin had tormented Edgar in a lot of different ways over the time they'd spent together. He knew what it felt like to dominate him, to destroy him, to obliterate whatever feeble defenses he could put up against him. Scriabin remembered how powerful he felt when he'd torn control of his body away from him, over and over and over again. When he'd taunted him with it, made him beg and plead for it only to deny him. He remembered all of that. He knew how that felt, that powerful bolstering glow within that said he was better than him, and better than everyone. Whenever he doubted himself, whenever he questioned his place in the world or his ability to bear it, Scriabin could always draw strength and courage from his victories against him. He was king of this world, and of all the little peons in it, and especially of Edgar. Especially of him.

This feeling, when Edgar said that, was that same feeling, he was sure. It was physical in a way that was new to him, that gave him goosebumps, that sent a shiver through him for some reason, that made his face burn just as he imagined Edgar's had, that left his stomach feeling tight and his heart beating fast. All of it a physical reaction to just how completely he'd won, how utterly he'd destroyed any chance Edgar had of regaining control. That was what this feeling was, this glowing warmth in his chest, the inability he had to take his stinging eyes off of him. Edgar was smiling, softly, something tired about it, something warm that felt the same inside. He wasn't sure why, since Edgar had decidedly lost this, but for some reason the warmth felt the same.

The couple they were talking to said it was very romantic. Scriabin tilted his head back with a smug smile. Scriabin beat Edgar at everything. He was better than him in every way. Of course he was more romantic than Edgar was. He was more _everything_ than Edgar was.

"I told you you'd regret it," Scriabin said, as the other couple left, pleased and smiling without thought. A perfect victory, all the sweeter for giving Edgar the illusion of winning right before he took it from him, as he took everything.

Edgar just looked at him with his eyebrows drawn together, no doubt mourning his defeat. Scriabin had warned him not to play these games with him. He could see sadness in Edgar's eyes, could almost feel it building in him like water filling a glass. 

He wished he could reach out and touch it, like he used to. He really, really wanted to, and he let that thought be honest for a few seconds. He really wanted to. Something like a similar sadness built in him.

"You did," Edgar said, softly, and he looked away.

Scriabin had had enough of tormenting Edgar with their fake marriage. Being perfect for this long was exhausting, dealing with Edgar this long was exhausting. He didn't want to feel like this, looking at him, looking at him looking like that, and he was tired of thinking about the whole thing. He'd been thinking about it entirely too hard already, just to make sure he'd won. And he did. That was that.

That was that.

"I guess we should talk to the old bat." Scriabin crossed his arms, looking across the room at Ms. Bitters. She was currently hissing at someone trying to take a cookie. "I don't see it being very productive, but that _is_ why we came here, after all."

"It is," Edgar said, staring off into the distance.

 _You can't hear me,_ Scriabin said, glancing at him side-long, resentful. _Who are you trying to talk to?_

That one was Edgar's fault. Edgar made him try again, he always did. Scriabin wasn't to blame for the silence that met his thoughts and the ugly, wounded feeling that came with it. That wasn't his fault.

They made their way over to her, this time without touching. No need to drag Edgar into this social interaction, it was the entire reason he'd come here. Knowing him, he'd made peace with it as something inevitable right at the beginning. It was always easy to do things when Edgar just passively accepted them. It was fun when Edgar fought him, on his terms, but it wasn't _easy_.

"Yes, we're looking after Todd," Edgar said, and Scriabin realized he'd zoned out of the first few seconds of the conversation. Damn it, he didn't usually do that. "His parents... left him to us, for a while, while they're... busy."

Ms. Bitters gave him a doubtful, scornful look through her narrow glasses. When she moved, you could almost hear a snake coiling and rattling. Even now, as an adult, she was intimidating, as implacable as always.

"How horrible," she said, in that raspy voice of hers, "to be afflicted with _children_."

She was just the same as Edgar, and thus Scriabin, remembered. And, Scriabin remembered well, absolutely nothing was going to change that.

The only real goal of this conversation was to get the information and get out. Scriabin felt tired all of a sudden, he felt drained and exhausted. Any plans he'd made to tell Ms. Bitters off, to get vengeance for Edgar's miserable days in her classroom, seemed too much now. He just wanted to go home, he wanted to stop thinking about any of this. He wanted to stop thinking about Edgar's face, the look in his eyes during all those stupid stories they wove together.

"How is Todd doing? Is there anything we should be aware of?" Edgar said, while Scriabin tried to focus on something other than his darkening mood. He would have left if Edgar didn't have the keys, if Edgar wasn't so _responsible_ that he was going to see this through, even if Scriabin was miserable about it.

"He's still alive, isn't he?" Ms. Bitters grated out. "He has been showing signs of..." She shuddered. " _Imagination_."

 _Good,_ Scriabin thought, to no one.

"Oh, yes... he can be very creative," Edgar said, carefully. He hadn't forgotten the prevailing lesson from when he was a child any more than Scriabin had. _Shut up, conform, obey._ "We can tell him to try not to do it in school."

Scriabin could sense Edgar rephrasing, reworking the sentence, could imagine him piecing together the words in his mind. _We'll try to encourage him to do that at home_ , Scriabin guessed. _Home_ would be the word Edgar would have stuck on, that he would have edited out.

Todd was their kid now, anyone with a brain would have gotten that ages ago. Edgar, of course, was as dumb as a rock.

"And he's also been asking... _questions_ ," Ms. Bitters hissed.

 _Good,_ Scriabin thought, to no one again, and it didn't hurt less the second time.

This was harder to respond to, and Scriabin could see Edgar working over what to say in his mind. "What kind of questions?"

"He's been doubting the curriculum." Ms. Bitters steepled her thin fingers. "Questioning the _texts_. I'm getting tired of it. He hasn't been talking about his crazy neighbor as much though." She admitted this only reluctantly. "So at least that's something."

Ugh. Johnny. Of _course_. Like Scriabin needed anything else to worsen his mood right now.

"Yeah, he's not living next door to him anymore," Scriabin said, crossing his arms. "We're keeping him away from him."

Which was true. It'd be nice if _Edgar_ stayed away from him, but Scriabin didn't want to deal with _that_ right now. He was already pissed off, and that unmovable boulder did _not_ look appealing.

Edgar gave him a look, and Scriabin could read _well, we're trying to_ in his eyes, could picture it going across his thoughts. Scriabin wasn't about to help him with this.

"Good. I'm getting sick of getting rid of all the roadkill." Ms. Bitters tapped her fingertips against each other. Of course Johnny gave Todd roadkill. Of course Johnny did. And Scriabin thought he hated Edgar. It was nothing compared to how much he hated Johnny. He could obliterate everyone in this room with the strength in which he hated that man. "At least he has a full understanding of the inevitability of death and how it comes for us all eventually, but I'm sick of the questions. Tell him to stop asking questions."

Ms. Bitters had always had an interesting outlook on the world. At least she hadn't mentioned doom yet.

"We will," Edgar said, in a calm and even tone, and Scriabin knew Edgar was going to do no such thing.

_Good._

_..._

Ugh. Again.

"Fine. It's been horrible talking to you," she said, and then she slithered off.

"Well, she hasn't changed at all," Edgar said after she'd gone.

"The hell I'm going to tell Todd to do any of that crap," Scriabin said, unnecessarily.

"I know, I know. At least we're done. Let's get out of here."

They talked to Greg to add their information to Mr. and Mrs. Casil's, and then they left.

Scriabin followed behind Edgar, his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground. Anger, frustration, they were old friends of his. Uncontrollable thoughts, those were less familiar. He was tired of thinking about the entire farce, and yet, it still clouded up his mind like smog.

"You do realize what you've done, right?" Edgar said, which made him lift his head.

"Hm?"

"You do realize that we're committed to this now?"

"To Todd? We were already-"

"No, to this whole thing." Edgar turned a little to face him, gestured vaguely between them. "To us being married. You do realize we're committed to this now?"

Scriabin blinked at him, a bit confused but he was too quick to let an opportunity pass him by. "That's sort of what marriage entails, doesn't it?" And he smiled. Edgar did not return it.

"If we see those people again, they're going to remember. Maybe not the details, but they're going to remember that we're married. They're going to expect that from us, not just for tonight, but forever from this point on." Edgar gave him a disapproving look that Scriabin did not like at all. "Did you think about that, or did you do this tonight just to make me upset?"

Scriabin actually hadn't thought about that.

For a brief moment, Scriabin wondered if it had been a good idea. As he always did whenever that doubt came up, he kicked that shit to the curb. Of course it was a good idea. _All_ his ideas were good ideas. He'd never done anything wrong in his entire life.

So what if he couldn't leave their little fake life behind in that auditorium. Scriabin could adapt. Scriabin knew how to do that. He'd figure out how to deal with it, and he'd figure out how to keep making Edgar miserable about it, because that's what he did. That's what he always did.

Edgar sighed, like Scriabin's silence was answer enough.

"You always do this," Edgar said, a bit soft. "You always do things without thinking them through, just to try and get to me. That's all you ever care about, and then I'm the one who has to deal with it."

Scriabin instinctually wanted to refute that in some way.

"You went along with it," he said, which wasn't nearly as clever as he wanted it to be.

"You forced me to, you asked me to," Edgar said, with a bit more resentment and frustration than he expected. "Just to make me miserable. It's always just to make me miserable."

And again, Scriabin wanted to refute that, but he wasn't sure why. That _was_ why he did it. That's what he always did. He was always fucking with Edgar. That's all it was. That's all it ever was.

Which made the dull hurt of the thought all the more confusing. If it wasn't just to fuck with Edgar, what other reason could there _be_ for anything Scriabin had done tonight? For any of the stories he'd spun with him? There wasn't any other reason.

There wasn't any other reason.

He got that stupid image again, of them sitting at the cafe, and him putting his hand on his, and the look on Edgar's face as he realized. Edgar taking the box and saying yes. Edgar would never do that. He'd throw the box to the floor, he'd stalk out of the bookshop, he'd sulk and go home and yell at him for trying to embarrass him with his ridiculous dramatic gestures. That's all he ever did with anything Scriabin tried to give him. That was why Scriabin would have done it in the first place, to make Edgar do that. That's what Scriabin wanted, that's why he did it.

The box on the floor, the ring missing, Scriabin standing in the middle of the bookshop, alone.

"It's not like it'll even be that different," Scriabin mumbled. "We're basically married as it is."

Edgar was quiet for a while. Scriabin wanted to guess at what he was thinking, but he couldn't get his thoughts clear enough to see Edgar's.

 _Imagine_ Edgar's thoughts. He couldn't see them anymore, not the way he used to.

"It's not the same," Edgar finally said, his car keys jingling in his hand. "I wouldn't have to pretend you care about me."

It was like something very hard had suddenly thudded into his chest, painful enough to make his eyes sting. He didn't know what it was, but god, he was mad at it.

Scriabin got in the car, and he leaned his head on one hand as he fixed his stare firmly out the passenger side window, blinking quick.

"Yeah," he said, carefully, evenly. He always controlled the tone of his voice perfectly. Nothing came through it if he didn't want it to. "I guess I wouldn't either."

Scriabin had been fucking with him. That's all it was. That's all it ever was.

That's all it ever was.

They drove home in silence.

\---

Todd heard the sound of the keys in the door, and he gathered up the papers across the kitchen table.

"That's them, Shmee!" Todd said, smiling at the bear sitting across from him. "I hope it went okay."

_It'll be fine._

"I hope they like it." Todd looked down at the papers in his hand, and got up to go into the living room. Edgar and Scriabin came in, and they both looked very tired and pretty unhappy. That wasn't good. That wasn't good at all.

"Hi, Mr. Edgar." And Scriabin flinched in that way. "Hi, Mr. Scriabin." There, that fixed it. "Is everything okay? Am I in trouble?"

"Oh, no, of course not." Edgar blinked and managed to give him a tired smile. Scriabin was strangely quiet, looking away from them both. "Everything is fine. You're doing very well. We just talked with Ms. Bitters for a little while, and she said..." He paused in thought. "She said to keep it up."

That didn't sound like Ms. Bitters. Todd could guess at what she actually said. She was always telling him to stop writing in class. It had to be that. That's what his parents always said whenever they saw Ms. Bitters as well, among other things.

Well, if Edgar didn't say it, then he must not have thought it was a problem. He'd never had a problem with Todd's writing before. Edgar and Scriabin actually liked hearing his stories. Todd was still trying to get used to that.

"Okay," Todd said, and he fidgeted. "Uh, I drew you something while you were gone. Do you wanna see?"

Edgar blinked, and Scriabin turned back to look at him. Todd was a little worried. Scriabin was rarely quiet, and when he was it usually meant he was either sad or angry, and it could be hard to tell. It could be both.

 _Scriabin is definitely upset,_ Shmee said, sounding a little distracted. _But it's nothing you did. He doesn't want to talk about it though._

Phew, that was a relief at least.

"Sure, Todd. What is it?" Edgar held out a hand, and Todd gave the drawing one more glance before he handed it over. He'd put a lot of work into it, it was about as good as it was going to get. Edgar and Scriabin were definitely going to like it.

Edgar stood there, looking at the picture, and Scriabin came to look over his shoulder. 

"It's you and me and Mr. Scriabin," Todd said, flipping through the other sheets of paper he was holding. "From that time we went to the park, remember? Remember all the birds?" The birds had tried to steal Todd's sandwich and then Todd himself, but Scriabin had chased them off. Things like that were always happening to him. "I didn't draw all the birds."

"Yes, I remember," Edgar said, quietly, toying with the corner of the sheet of paper. 

_Oh,_ Shmee said, in the same kind of quiet voice.

"What is it, Shmee?" Todd looked back to the kitchen, and at that, Scriabin broke away with a small strained sound, headed for the bedroom, and shut the door behind him without saying anything.

 _It's nothing you did, Todd,_ Shmee said, although he was still saying it quiet. _It's something Scriabin did._

Scriabin was always doing stuff. Todd frowned. What had he gotten into this time? Maybe that was why Edgar was looking at his drawing like that.

"Oh, it's... it's lovely, Todd," Edgar said, like he'd just remembered what was happening. "It's just like I remember."

"It's for you, you can keep it." Todd flipped through the papers again. "Um, I have some other ones too." He caught two of them between his fingers and pulled them out. "These ones are for you. The other ones are for Mr. Scriabin. Is he okay? He isn't talking."

Edgar looked after where Scriabin had left, and something like pain crossed his face for a second.

"He did something bad, didn't he?" Todd knew Scriabin. "What did he do?"

"Oh..." Edgar sighed, a long one, and looked back to the drawing. "It's nothing you have to worry about. He just caused trouble for me, as usual."

That definitely sounded like Scriabin. "What'd he do?"

Edgar was quiet for a while, and then he sighed again, long and resigned. He went to the kitchen, still not taking his eyes of the picture, and Todd followed. He hated it when Scriabin made Edgar sad. He did that a lot. He wished the two of them could just get along.

"He just lied to me." Edgar got a magnet out of a drawer, and he pinned the picture on the fridge. "As usual."

"Oh, you're putting it on the fridge?" Todd still wasn't used to that idea. His parents tended to lose his drawings a lot. Almost all the time, actually. Most of what was pinned to his fridge at home were notes saying Todd should move out, or phone numbers for adoption centers.

"Of course." Edgar looked at him, and he tried to smile at him but it was weak. "It's really nice."

"I don't know if Mr. Scriabin liked it." Todd looked back to where Scriabin had gone, but it was still eerily quiet.

"Well..." Edgar stared at it before letting out a long sigh. "I like it."

Todd stood beside him to look at it. He'd really spent a lot of time on the drawing. The sky was a detailed shade of blue, and the grass had all the individual blades, so it was very realistic. He didn't quite remember the color of the blanket that they'd brought, but he liked purple anyway. Since it was supposed to be a gift, he'd spent the most time on Edgar and Scriabin, drawing them sitting right next to each other just like they had been that day. He even added the red yarn that Scriabin had in his hair.

Todd hadn't _seen_ them holding hands, like he'd drawn, but he thought it'd be nice if they did. He'd thought about drawing some kind of mark on Edgar's head to show where Scriabin had come out of, but he decided against it. Edgar didn't have one in real life, after all.

He had made sure to draw them both smiling though. It was so, so much better when they weren't fighting. More than anything Todd wanted to keep them from fighting. Everyone was happier when they weren't fighting. Todd even drew himself smiling as he ate his sandwich. Most of the time in his drawings he was screaming as something tried to eat him, but not this time. 

Edgar kept staring at the picture, and Todd wondered if maybe he should have drawn the birds after all.

Shmee sighed in his mind, in a kind of head-shaking, pitying way.

"Shmee?"

 _Oh, not at you, Todd,_ Shmee said. _Not at you._

Todd speaking again seemed to shake Edgar out of whatever trance he was in. Todd was used to him doing that when he was talking to Scriabin, back when Scriabin lived in his brain. It was a little weird that he still did that, but not a lot. He knew it was hard for them to get used to being apart now.

"Right, I should make dinner." Edgar brushed his hands off on his pants, and he looked down to him. "Is there anything you'd like?"

"Can we have spaghetti?"

"Sure," Edgar said, and he started going about it just like that. Todd wasn't used to that either. He wasn't used to adults actually listening to him at all, much less doing anything he asked.

Would Scriabin come out to join them? It wasn't the first time he'd locked himself in the bedroom when he was upset. Maybe he'd come out later.

Todd sat back at the kitchen table, flipped over one of his drawings, and started working on the back. He didn't want to waste any paper, and he wanted to illustrate the story about the demon and the monster that Scriabin had liked. Maybe that would make him feel better. Scriabin usually liked his stories.

It really would be so much better if Edgar and Scriabin could just get along and be friends. They were really good friends, when they weren't fighting. Todd wasn't sure they even knew that.

Maybe someday they'd figure it out. Maybe someday.


End file.
